What Is on the Other Side of Forgiveness?
Coming to terms with hurt and betrayal can be more complicated, and rewarding, than we expect
We can hurt each other so badly
Six years ago, my husband of 43 years, devastated me with an announcement of his infidelity, his intention to continue it, and unapologetically ended our marriage within 24 hours.
I was slammed, stunned at his betrayal, especially since I thought we had a pretty good relationship. In hindsight, I can see the fragilities that led up to this disaster. But they didn’t exactly explain it either.
One day I was married and the next I was separated. More specifically, I was alone. Adrift. And in a searing pain for which I found no respite. I choked on my sorrow and then raged with my anger.
And even then, I was also drowning in our wide world’s abject cruelty as a sure sign that we’re all going straight to hell. But I was so self-absorbed then that I could only embrace my pain, or the suffering of those close to me.
I forgive to protect
Because of my daughter’s distress, I vowed to maintain a relationship with her father that preserved some sense of family. Her twenty years did not protect her. She was still “my baby.” It was more painful to embrace her pain than my own. My childhood psychotherapy patients who were left in the dust of their parent’s vitriol educated me about what I could and could not do.
It’s funny. There are so many times when we are called upon to be the “Ultimate Grown-ups,” when instead we are consumed with the wild tantrum grief of the “Pre-Schoolers.” When all the screaming protests demand immediate attention and healing, being an “Ultimate Grown-up” is so hard.
Even in my bellowing pain, I knew that the only thing worse than being abandoned by my husband, was to leave my child in the weeds of cruelty that choked me without end.
Lines in the sand
I began with the promise that I would never bad-mouth her father in front of her. Despite my confusion and piercing sorrow, I just couldn’t steal him from her. I wanted to. But I couldn’t.
As her father and I began to talk on the phone, my daughter’s mood lifted. She was no longer shivering, adrift between two ice bergs. She seemed more anchored. Late at night, when I was sure she was asleep, I freed myself from being a “good mother,” and let myself drown in wild grief.
I talked more frequently to my ex-husband. I was amazed that we still had anything to talk about. His rescue of a really sorry dog named “Lucky” was a major step forward. Suddenly, we all had things to talk to each other about — him.
It was more than that. To her, the acquisition of a dog was the glue that encouraged us be “a real family.” It redeemed her father in her eyes. I have to admit that I wasn’t totally thrilled that she was forgiving him.
“Mama, you like Lucky, don’t you?” she badgered me.
My halfhearted response always met with an indifferent, “Yeah.”
“Mama, you gotta try!”
“Ok, Baby,” I yawned.
“Mama,” she insisted, “You need to try.”
“Oh, sweet child,” I wanted to say to her. “It's more complicated. I pray you never know this pain. But don’t expect me to let go of this screaming, breaking agony just because of a dog.”
Letting go
I began to see my husband more frequently and over time, I remembered all of those things that made him my husband in the first place. Still, the closeness of our years conspired to make his abandonment often feel worse.
My heart was so broken that I was sure it would never beat right again. My self-confidence was in the dirt. And I was angrier in my life than I had ever allowed myself to feel.
OK, Yeah, I forgive you
Having the will to forgive him was worthless. It's nothing that gives you an “A for Effort.” It required my believing his real misery and contrition. It required repeated exposure of the same sins, the same penance and the same residence in hell. I went over and over the break, like sanding and smoothing a damaged branch.
Over several years, it seemed that forgiveness was going to require good memories and heartfelt apologies. I needed to know why, why, why did he do this? It was a colossal waste of pain and time.
My therapist (yes, finally the therapist saw a therapist), zeroed in on the precursors on his infidelity. At first, I was furious that she would even suggest that I might bear a speck of responsibility for this disaster. But as she led me through the extreme pressures on both of us at that time, I began to accept an empathy for my husband’s state of mind at the time we came apart.
When I protested to her that it was not fair to have to change my feelings towards him, she emphasized that my feelings never had to change, but sometimes insight and empathy can help the person who is trying to find her way through longstanding pain.
The hurt did ease a bit. The hatred was less volcanic. St. Martha the Martyr lost some of her self-righteous, righteous shine. I slowly retrieved the deep friendship I’d had with him. We talked about our marriage more honestly as divorced people than we’d ever had in our marriage. I have been able to let go of my venomous wishes, of my righteous obsessions with the bitch (alright, not totally) he left me for.
We recovered our even footing, even when it sometimes felt too close to the abyss.
I’m not “done.” There are times when a comment, a look, a smell undermine my control and I’d like to take some scissors to his favorite shirts. But I don’t. He can buy some new shirts. I can’t afford the corrosion of spirit and peace to myself.
Watch out for the U-turns
Five years following our separation my ex-husband ran into complications with his living situation. I told him he could stay in my daughter's old room. He shopped and cooked. He did video sessions with his psychotherapy clients, with Lucky at his feet, while I wrote in my room.
It has been a quiet, careful existence.
Each morning, we brave the 6-hour time difference and FaceTime our five-month-old granddaughter who lives in Sweden. When my ex-husband leans in and in a squeaky voice, chirps, “Hello my “Sweet Maxine. It’s your Grandda,” I muscle in with, “Hi Baby! It’s Grandmother!”
Maxine twists her head in my daughter’s direction, as if to say, “Do you know these people?” Every damn day. And I swear, my daughter’s reply is, “Oh yeah, I know them. I’ll give you the low down in a few years.”
Maxine is more than just the most perfect child in the world. She is the reminder of the joy left in us. No matter how much we share our love for her, it never runs out. I know it sounds naive, but it’s the closest I’ve touched a miracle in years.
She shared something so absent in our relationship. Pure joy.
And it seems like after all the time and all the pain, it becomes easier and easier to fall back into a pool of perfect water. That is not true for all kinds of hurt and all kinds of healing. I would never insult the suffering of others.
Forgiveness is not “achieved”
We never get a notice that says we have successfully completed the course in forgiving. There is no announcement that the flames that have consumed us are extinguished forever. We don’t get a certificate that neatly pronounces one of us as the forgiver and the other one the forgiven.
Forgiving is like trying to hold water in your palms. It’s not a sure bet.
Over time, just when you think you have it made, echoes of an old children’s song resound:
“The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see.”
But when he gets to the other side, all he finds is another damn mountain.
Our mountains never totally disappear. Emotion is too powerful a force. For some, the slope becomes gentler, until the peaks look more like hills.
Others will continue to swallow hard and choke on avalanches of anger that corrode their health and wellbeing.
So, I keep my eyes peeled for the gentle hills in the far-off distance. And I listen for the precious laughter of a little baby I love but have yet to meet. And I will call to her,
“Maxine, Maxine. I am your grandmother. Your mama’s mama.”
“And, you know what, Maxine?”
“I’m going to be alright!”
